As usual, this Sunday evening I sat uncomfortably in my black leather swivel chair, with my shoulders raised as high as eyebrows and my arms nipped in at my waist side and as usual my incorrect posture alone gave me away. I had stayed up all night watching online streams of several trend pioneering S/S 2010 shows. From Donna Karan to Burberry, it was a night of classic home cinema, to the surround sound beat of fashion. A dream of dreams to be there in person and feel the ambiance of a decorative crowd and listen to the harmonic sound of applause crescendo at the close. As I watched, I felt my eyes lusting after this conveyor belt of beauty that coasted up and down the runway in 5inch stilettos. Models, articulate dolls that cleverly spoke without their mouths, but instead with their silhouettes. Glamorous mannequins, placed outside the store windows and onto the daring catwalk for the "exclusive only" to see. A parade of beauty that did more than just swing their slender arms and give soul piercing looks, models were the human free falls on which any fabric could easily descend. Their necks were unassuming valleys that overlooked a designer's masterpiece. Their legs were optical illusions that convinced me that a woman's movement could be seducing and unforgettable. These were the unfamiliar pretty that we adored, with bodies that we trusted with our fashion devotions. The runway, the plank of the beautiful, where those willing to go over the edge survive!